


The Silent Hour of the Night

by DarkAbyss



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drunken Kissing, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Gen, Late night talks, M/M, Mentions of Purgatory, Minor Spoilers, Once Again That's All There Is, One Shot, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:21:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21974245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkAbyss/pseuds/DarkAbyss
Summary: Sleepless nights aren’t always so bad. At times they bring revelations and so many events have met their ending in the almost complete silence of the night. If you ask Dean, though, he’ll say that it's all bullshit. Lack of sleep and alcohol just creates more problems.29/12/19 Edit: Reviewed & corrected (style wise too)
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 8
Kudos: 28





	The Silent Hour of the Night

**Author's Note:**

> Just a small one-shot I was inspired to write, thanks to an internet friend’s request. I guess the holidays are calling for all the fluff I don’t write during the rest of the year xD
> 
> Comments and kudos are very welcome and appreciated!
> 
> Enjoy!

Hardships and tragedies tend to bring people together, they say. Each of them tears away pieces of your soul, and even in the aftermath it _never_ stops taking and taking and taking. And each time the pain, instead of dulling, is a little sharper, a little deeper. It is as if, the more walls you build around you, the more _vulnerable_ you become when a crack in your defences is found. At the end of the day, behind all your barriers, you’re nothing but a fragile castle made of debris, ready to start crumbling when the next blow comes.

That’s when the natural instinct to reach out surfaces, seeking for a kindred soul. No matter how deep your distrust is, how strong your hopelessness. Survival is the strongest of pulls, even for those who have already not just hit the bottom, but also began to dig even deeper. It’s a harsh fight, between the fear of creating even more openings for your demons to _consume_ you and the awareness that certain battles _cannot_ be won in solitude.

How many times has the world been on the verge of destruction? Too many, especially considering that, from a wider point of view, a couple of decades are _less_ than heartbeat in the long lifetime of the universe. One might wonder how quickly their efforts to keep reality together are truly worth, when they might be _forgotten_ in the blink of the universal eye.

Dean tilts his head back to take a swing of his beer, rolling his eyes at himself. Lack of sleep _seriously_ fucks up with his brain at times. He’s never been one to linger on philosophy, not in those terms at least. He prefers focusing on the present, when he’s not dwelling, willingly or not, in the darkest parts of his past. The bigger picture…That’s somehow he has given up understanding a long time ago, when he had started to doubt that it existed at all. Moreover, he likes to think that he _can_ make a difference, no matter how small, with his actions, at least in the life of the people they save.

A light ruffling sound comes from behind his shoulders and he turns his head to see who’s approaching him. Considering that he is sat on the top of the hill that shields the Bunker, his guesses are reduced to a very small handful of people. They aren’t expecting any guest and it’s the middle of the night, which means that Sam is most likely asleep. So, when Castiel joins him on the grass, he isn’t surprised at all.

“Hello, Dean. Can’t sleep?” The angel asks, his voice much quieter than it normally is. The night air is so silent, to the point that it almost feels _sacred_ , and he doesn’t feel like disturbing its atmosphere. He wraps his arms around his bent knees and turns to fully look at the hunter.

“Something like that,” Dean replies with a small shrug and then reaches out to offer his best friend another beer bottle. They are close enough for their shoulders to brush. “Just…you know. Lots of thoughts. Can’t exactly sleep if my brain doesn’t shut up.”

“I could help, if you’d like,” Castiel promptly offers, as they both know he would have. This is hardly a new conversation for them and, in any case, the angel has always been more than ready to shove his assistance in the older Winchester’s way. Sometimes a bit too much and with _disastrous_ consequences. He raises a hand but doesn’t try to reach out to the human’s forehead. By now he has grasped that Dean prefers not to be touched by “angelic mojo” unless he has given his explicit permission.

The hunter shakes his head, as he almost always does. “Nah. I mean I appreciate the offer, but if I let you put me to sleep now, I’ll be up all night tomorrow. Better let these thoughts run their course. You know how it works with me and sleep, after Purgatory and all. I’ll just get a stronger dose of coffee later. Also, I have _this_.” He waves his own bottle before taking another sip and the silence quickly falls on them again.

The older Winchester quickly finds himself wondering how much he has already drunk, because his head is starting to feel a bit too _light_ , while Castiel’s thoughts flow far away, back in time but especially past the confines of the human world. There are no lights, aside from the faint glow of the stars, and the lack of colour makes it _easy_ to picture the gray expanse that shapes everything in Purgatory, its inhabitants included. Those have been dangerous times, not just because there was a threat behind every corner, but because the angel’s head was drowning in a bottomless pit of guilt, _mourning_ what his mistakes had cost him.

His blue eyes move up to the stars. If he had been told, back then, that he and Dean would have gone back sitting in a companionable silence with no hint of resentment or mistrust making the air between them tense, he wouldn’t have believed it. There had been so much hurt, so much _betrayal_. Too many lines had been crossed. And yet, there they were, and it somehow felt like a real _miracle_.

The train of the angel’s thoughts stops as he feels Dean bumping their shoulders together. He immediately turns to look at his best friend, just to find him swaying slightly, eyes closed. He’s humming something under his breath, but his drunken state throws the rhythm so off tune that it’s impossible to recognise the song.

Castiel allows himself to sigh, before reaching out to place a hand on the hunter’s arm and steady him. “Dean. Let’s go back inside,” he murmurs, already pushing himself on his feet and dragging the older Winchester with him, deaf to the other’s mostly incoherent protests.

How they make it back to the Bunker’s main entrance without slipping or falling is a _mystery_ , considering how often the human trips on his own feet, too unsteady to be able to stand straight, but they manage nonetheless. The stairs are a bit _trickier_ and, had it been anyone else, the angel would have hauled them on his shoulders and carried them down like that. However, this is _Dean_ and he knows his best friend well enough to be aware of how _not_ appreciated such gesture would be. Still, the temptation is very so hard to resist that he feels allowed to let out a relieved breath once they have reached the older Winchester’s room.

“Can do the rest of my own,” Dean mutters, succeeding in locking his fingers around the handle after two failed attempts. His other hand is still clasped on Castiel’s shoulder for balance, forcing them to stand mostly face to face, even _closer_ than they normally would. Not that the human seems in any state to notice. His lips curl in a lopsided grin. “I think I’ll sleep, after all. Thanks, Cas.”

What follows happens in the space of a quick moment, before any of them can even realise that it is happening. The hunter tries to lower the handle, but, without thinking the movement through, he ends up pulling the door instead of pushing it. That small change in his stance is enough to make him lose his balance once again and he falls forward, straight against the angel. His fingers let go of the handle, finding in Castiel’s side a handhold to steady himself, and he feels his best friend’s hands instinctively grabbing his shoulders.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Dean curses, and in that very moment he realises two things: he is even drunker than he has thought and he has breathed the word out straight against the angel’s lips. Their mouths aren’t touching, but the distance between them is so thin that they could as well be.

He should move away, he is pretty sure he should because there is a part of his brain screaming to him to do it. However, there is another emotion rising in his chest, as quiet as the night surrounding them, but just as strong. _Longing_. It feels both new _and_ old, as a forgotten memory or a déjà-vu. And, unlike what he guesses being the voice of reason, it is much easier to listen to, much easier to _satisfy_.

Castiel’s eyes widen as the hunter presses forward, the question he was about to ask dying on his tongue as his lips get claimed. The kiss is chaste, so gentle that it _hurts_ , but at the same time it carries a whole _universe_ of emotions. It’s over before he can even start to process it and, when the warmth of Dean’s mouth retreats, he opens his eyes, which he hasn’t noticed closing in the first place. He watches as the older Winchester stumbles backwards, incredibly managing to open the door at the first attempt this time.

“Ah, yes...Sleep. ‘Night, Cas,” the hunter stutters and he slips, or rather _trips_ , inside the room, hurrying to shut the door behind his back. His mind is still half amazed and half horrified by what he has just done and, especially, it doesn’t seem to be able to wrap around its meaning. Or better, he _refuses_ to let his brain do it. Too many _inconvenient_ consequences would come. It’s much easier to rule it out as a drunken mistake. Or even pretend, come morning, to have forgotten it ever happened.

‘Easier to be said than to be done,’ he thinks, as he trudges towards the bed, craving the oblivion of sleep. The longing is still there, stinging like a small burn.

On the other side of the door, Castiel doesn’t move for several moments, too stunned to do anything but reliving the warm sensation of Dean’s lips pressed against his own. They have been friends for so many years, have gone through so much together. He has felt oddly attracted to the hunter’s soul since the first time he laid his eyes on it in Hell, but what had coaxed him into staying, into _rebelling_ over and over again has been the man. His stubbornness, his bravery, his selflessness, and even some of his flaws because they made him so _human_. Different than anything else he has known while serving in Heaven.

The lines between them have quickly become blurred, at least for the angel. It’s impossible to stand side by side with someone like Dean Winchester without ending up _loving_ him, to an extent. He has never allowed himself to dwell on what exactly that means for him, also because the hunter has always made his preferences _very_ clear. Angels are intrinsically sexless, even though Castiel would have lied if he had stated that, by now, he doesn’t recognise Jim’s face as his own. Moreover, he has the feeling that, even if he were to take a female vessel, it wouldn’t have changed the human’s disposition towards him.

He takes one step backwards and then another, before starting to walk towards his own room. That has been true till that very moment, though. After what has happened, he can’t not _wonder_. Perhaps it is time to try and grasp what Dean truly is for him, no matter what the hunter would decide to make of that kiss. He has learnt the hard way that lying to himself mostly brings him nothing but trouble. Honesty might hurt more, but it leaves no room for misunderstandings. And it is also a fertile ground for hope and faith.


End file.
